“Rain on the Scarecrow”

 John Mellencamp

Scarecrow on a wooden cross; blackbird in the barn;
Four-hundred empty acres that used to be my farm.
I grew up like my daddy did, my grandpa cleared this land;
When I was five I walked the fence while grandpa held my hand.

Rain on the scarecrow, blood on the plow;
This land fed a nation, this land made me proud;
And, son, I’m just sorry there’s no legacy for you now . . .
Rain on the scarecrow, blood on the plow;
Rain on the scarecrow, blood on the plow.

The crops we grew last summer weren’t enough to pay the loans;
Couldn’t buy the seed to plant this spring and the Farmers Bank foreclosed.
Called my old friend Schepman up to auction off the land;
He said John it’s just my job and I hope you understand.
Hey, calling it your job, ol’ hoss, sure don’t make it right,
But if you want me to I’ll say a prayer for your soul tonight.
And grandma’s on the front porch swing with a Bible in her hand;
Sometimes I hear her singing “Take me to the Promised Land.”
When you take away a man’s dignity, he can’t work his fields and cows . . .

There’ll be blood on the scarecrow, blood on the plow;
Blood on the scarecrow, blood on the plow.

Well there’s ninety-seven crosses planted in the courthouse yard—
Ninety-seven families who lost ninety-seven farms.
I think about my grandpa and my neighbors and my name,
And some nights I feel like dyin’, like that scarecrow in the rain.

Rain on the scarecrow, blood on the plow;
This land fed a nation, this land made me proud;
And, son, I’m just sorry they’re just memories for you now . . .
Rain on the scarecrow, blood on the plow;
Rain on the scarecrow, blood on the plow.